


Undercover

by standbygo



Series: Deep [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes undercover to unravel a crime network. </p><p>“Sherlock,” John said slowly, “I’ve had an idea, and I need you to tell me how stupid it is.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> This is a sequel to Interrogation, which started life as a one-shot. Then I started to get curious about how John and Sherlock handled the separation, and what John did while he was away. 
> 
> Warning - lots of sexytimes. Or, depending how you look at it, Yay, sexytimes! Some references with S3, but not 100% compliant. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, residentbunburyist.
> 
> Now being translated into Chinese by hydesakura! http://www.mtslash.com/thread-121733-1-1.html, and log in as the username: author01, password: author01.

_Sherlock took in the man’s compact stature, his dark hair, bearded face, the glint in his eyes._

_“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” said Jimmy softly. “We haven’t met, but you’ve met my brother, Tommy Bewick. Remember?”_

_Sherlock tilted his head at the man, raised an eyebrow._

_“Belarus?”_

_“Oh yes,” Sherlock said. “Now I remember. Your grammar is rather better than your brother’s.”_

_The man’s hand flashed out and grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s hair. “He asked for your help, bastard, and you walked away from him. Walked away,” he repeated, pulling hair for emphasis. “They hung him a month later, while he was still puking up his lungs from pneumonia.”_

_“Your brother was guilty.”_

_Jimmy released Sherlock’s hair, stood and swung his fist into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s head rocked back, then was held in place again by Jimmy’s hand in his hair._

_“I asked Mr. Montague for this assignment, special. He’s gonna ask you some questions, and I kinda hope you don’t answer them right, because I’m gonna really enjoy kicking the shit out of you.”_

+

_Three months earlier_

John yawned and wrapped his housecoat around him against the chill of the autumn morning as he came downstairs. Down the hallway he saw weak light streaming through the window and silhouetting Sherlock, standing and staring at the latest collage of evidence on the wall.

“Morning,” he called.

“Mmm.”

He wandered into the kitchen. “Want toast today?”

“Just tea, thanks.”

John popped the bread into the toaster and filled the kettle. “How long have you been up?”

“I don’t know, when did you start snoring?” Sherlock said, without taking his eyes from the collage.

“Well, you snore too,” John rallied cheerfully.

“Do not.”

“Absolutely you do. After you finish a case, you eat a meal that would frighten a lumberjack, and then you sleep for twelve hours straight, snoring like a bandsaw the whole night. Once Mrs. Turner called.”

Sherlock finally turned from the collage and glared. “John Hamish Watson, you lie.”

“Right, next time I’m recording you for evidence.”

Silence for a time while the tea steeped. John came into the sitting room with two mugs in one hand and his plate of toast in the other. He handed Sherlock his tea and said quietly, “I’m sorry I woke you.”

A long finger slid along the back of John’s hand; the slight bump of a shoulder, and a gentle crinkling around the eyes, and John felt a rush of joy at the new dimensions of his life.Three months since he had said ‘ _the hell with it’_ and kissed Sherlock, and to his delight the consequence had not been a broken friendship, but three months of the best sex of his life.

“You didn’t really. I was thinking,” Sherlock said.

John turned his attention to the wall as well. “The Montague case still?”

“Yes.” Sherlock indicated a number of long strings attached by one end to the wall. “I’ve been trying to figure out how all the evidence links together, what binds all the different facets together, and I can’t _see_ it.” His frustration leaked out into his voice, sharpening the consonants _._ “I’ve got all this evidence, but Lestrade says he can’t make an arrest without the connections.”

“Well, he wants it to stick, doesn’t he? Would be awful to arrest Montague and then have him get back out for lack of proof. Never see him again, disappear into the woodwork.”

“Lestrade keeps whining about the evidential procedures. Boring.”

John smiled and took his toast to his chair. “Makes you yearn for the days of the Star Chamber.”

“John, this is not the time to start referencing your silly science fiction films.”

“Science fiction…? No, I meant… Oh never mind.”

John plunked himself down into his chair and ate his toast while he watched Sherlock fiddle with the collage. Usually ‘fiddle’ would not be the word one would use in relation to Sherlock’s work, but in this case it was entirely appropriate. John watched as Sherlock took a string and attached it to a picture, then paused. His hand came slowly come up and attached the other end of the string to another picture, or map, or newspaper article, but a moment later, with a whispered curse, he took the string down again. The process was repeated several times, with the curses becoming louder and more creatively obscene each time. Clearly Sherlock had picked up some things from living with John besides better eating habits.

John tapped the side of his mug with his fingernail, letting his thoughts of the last few days congeal, the words swirling around his head like the last pea in a bowl of soup. Once he said the words, he knew, there would be no taking them back. And yet they needed to be said, whatever the consequence. The Montague network was a poison, and _needed_ to be stopped. _Tap tap tap_.

“Sherlock,” he said slowly, “I’ve had an idea, and I need you to tell me how stupid it is.”

Sherlock only responded with a distracted grunt.

“What if… what if we went undercover. Infiltrated the Montague gang. Get the information from within.”

“I can’t, John, you know I can’t. With the media frenzy after I came back, and Janine…” – a brief and slightly uncomfortable silence, but that’s water under the bridge – “I’m too recognizable now, even in disguise, and they will be watching for me.”

“That’s true, you are recognizable,” John replied. “But I’m not.”

Slowly, Sherlock finally turned and stared at John, his eyes intense and full of light.

“I’ve hardly ever been pictured in the paper, and if I have been I’m behind you. I can grow a full beard quickly, and it comes in darker, more of a brown, and if I dyed my hair to match I doubt even Harry would know me on the street.”

Sherlock walked over as if hypnotized and sat in his chair, his silver eyes boring into John. John felt gooseflesh along his forearms and thighs at being the sole focus of that gaze, felt a small roll of arousal.

“Even if I infiltrate and stay on a lower level of the organization, I’d probably still get information on the warehouses, how the goods get delivered, that sort of thing. Maybe even get a sense of how the shipping works between the different centres across Europe.”

Sherlock leaned forward, his hands steepling under his chin. John licked his lips and continued.

“This is the stupid part.”

Sherlock slid forward on his chair, his hands now on his knees.

“Yes, they’re looking for you. They want to stop your investigation. So we let them bring you in.” Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together, and John held out a hand. “Wait. Now. Remember when we went to that play at the National Theatre with your parents? King Lear? And the old man was tied to the chair and…”

John lost track of time while he spoke. He could not think of any other time Sherlock had let him speak this long without interrupting.

Finally he ground to a halt. Sherlock had not moved since he began.

 _This is it_ , John thought. _This is when Sherlock tells me I’m the biggest idiot in London_.

“Come here, John,” Sherlock said, and again, “Come _here_ ,” but he was already out of his chair and closing the distance between them. John found himself on his feet and in Sherlock’s arms before he could think. Sherlock’s eagerness drew them both to the floor as they kissed hungrily.

“You’re brilliant, John,” Sherlock growled, scraping his teeth along John’s neck. John groaned in response and pulled Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth, sucking hard. “So brilliant… God, yes…”

John let Sherlock lick into his mouth, and wound his fingers into Sherlock's hair. It still startled him, didn’t seem real, that this beautiful, brilliant man, who had shunned relationships for nearly a decade, wanted him. And wanted him with increasing frequency and intensity.

Slow and sensual was John’s usual style, and with Sherlock’s gifts of focus and concentration, sex could last for hours. But, sometimes, every once and a while, John got caught up in Hurricane Sherlock and it was breathtaking and a huge adrenalin rush and sexy as hell and _oh my God_ Sherlock pushed down John’s pyjama pants and John was hard already and he moaned and pushed Sherlock’s T-shirt up and sucked hard on his nipple, and just like that they were both desperate.

“You’re hard as a fucking rock, Jesus,” John hissed as Sherlock tipped his hips down into John’s. They struggled against each other for a few moments, already too far gone to find a satisfying rhythm. John finally wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s thighs, put one hand on his waist and one on the back of his neck and flipped him over to his side.

“Here – here -” he said, and slid Sherlock’s pyjama pants down. He shuffled down Sherlock’s body a few inches, lining their hips up. He spat gracelessly into his hand. “We haven’t done it like this for a while, yeah?”

The first touch of skin on skin electrified and also somehow calmed John. From the first time they moved their friendship into a physical sphere, their chemistry had been instant and charged. They took the same silent communication and connectedness that worked so well in crime scenes, and transferred it effortlessly into sex. Sherlock, not surprisingly, had figured out all of John’s erogenous zones (he assumed all, but then Sherlock would surprise him with a new one he didn’t know about). By the same token, John somehow knew when Sherlock needed sex to slow his frenzied brain, or when he needed to emulate his manic cerebral energy into a delightfully filthy quickie – like now.

Sherlock’s eyes rolled up as John wrapped his hand around both their cocks, and found the pace that they had been seeking. “Yes, John, yes, _s’il te plait_ ,” his voice going breathy and deep.

“Christ,” John muttered. Sherlock sometimes descended into French when he was out of his mind with desire, and it had a Pavlovian effect on John. He wound his free hand into Sherlock’s hair, pulling until Sherlock tilted his head back, and kissed his neck fiercely. All his nerve endings seemed to be on fire, radioactive. He couldn’t slow his pace now if he tried.

He spat into his hand again for more lubrication, and tilted his hips, adding a slide of cock against cock to his stroking hand. "Oh God," he said, his voice coming from somewhere deep inside. "Close, Sherlock, close-"

“ _Vas-y_ , John, _va… va_ …” Sherlock’s voice stuttered as the rhythm of his hips faltered, and he groaned deeply as he came. The sensation of the warm come splashing on his belly, along with the vibration of Sherlock’s cry resonating through his rib cage and into John’s skin, triggered his own release, and he shouted wordlessly against Sherlock’s neck as he came.

They lay still for a moment, catching their breath. John wiped his hand on his T-shirt and Sherlock pushed his hair away from his face, panting.

“So,” John said when he found his voice again. “You don’t like the idea?”

Sherlock laughed, a free, easy chuckle. “It’s brilliant,” he said, pulling John close and kissing his forehead. “You’re brilliant.”

Later, in the shower, John passed Sherlock the shampoo and, forcing a casual tone, “I’d have to leave Baker Street for a while, of course.”

Sherlock froze for a mere fraction of a second. “Of course,” he replied; and then, “Why do you buy this cheap stuff, John? You may as well use petrol.”


	2. Chapter 2

The level of planning for John’s infiltration surpassed any other scheme he had been privy to since moving in with Sherlock. The Montague collage spread and spread, until it exceeded the wall of the sitting room, broke over the door and continued down the hall to their bedroom. Sherlock began to put more things up in their bedroom, but John made him take it down.

“Go onto the ceiling, the floor, the underside of the table, I don’t care. But I need _one_ space in this flat where I don’t have to think.”

+

There were frequent disagreements on tactics.

“You’re being ridiculous, John.”

“Hey, my idea, remember? What happened to my being brilliant?”

Silence.

“Shall we take a short break, then?”

“Good idea. Berk. Oh. That’s nice.”

+

For the most part, John relished the novel experience of being an equal participant in the strategizing. Usually cases were led by Sherlock, who would occasionally bring John in on the plan sometime before pressing his gun into his hand and shushing him.

“We mustn’t tell any of the Yarders.”

“Quite right. Lestrade and his team of morons wouldn’t keep it quiet. Destroy your cover in minutes.”

“Oh, I think Greg could keep the secret. He’d just try to talk us out of it.”

“True.”

“Papa Lestrade.”

“Hm. What will you tell Harry?”

“It’s not like we talk now. Probably that I’ve gone to Edinburgh. She hates Scotland.”

“But… your background is Scottish, is it not?”

“Try going through life named Harriet Hagar Watson and see how much you pine for the crags.”

“Do I have to remind you of my own name, Doctor?”

+

They would need hard evidence – John’s word against the entire network would not suffice in a court of law, at least not in a way that would guarantee putting the ringleaders away.

After a few days of discussing and discarding various ideas, Sherlock came home one afternoon and tossed a small box at John. He opened to see a simple, inexpensive watch.

“Thank you…?” he said, brow furrowing.

“It’s from Mycroft. It doubles as a camera and recorder.” He leaned over and demonstrated each feature. “There’s enough time in the recorder for twelve hours of information, and for four hundred or so pictures.”

“That’s fantastic.” John looked at the watch, realizing that it probably cost more than… more than he cared to think about. “Mycroft, eh?”

“He’s as anxious to prosecute Montague as we are.”

“Hm.” John strapped it on, feeling how heavy it was while looking like a cheap Timex. “Not sure whether I should refer to Mycroft as M or Q now.”

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“Oh God, did you delete James Bond again?”

“I deleted the movie itself, John. Not the night we watched it.”

“The night we… oh.”

+

Sherlock called his contact at the National Theatre and got them an appointment with the fight choreographer. They spent an illuminating and slightly disturbing afternoon learning how to realistically fake punches, hair pulls, bone breaks, kicks, stabbings, and a number of other ‘tricks’ to make up their arsenal.

“I’ll never look at a horror movie the same way again,” John said, pocketing the recipe for stage blood he’d been given.

“Have you made me watch one of those yet, John?” Sherlock said, practicing the finger breaking trick on each of his long fingers. “I assume horror movie is not the same as horrible movie, which we watch all the time.”

“I’m not sure I can handle watching you watch a horror movie, you’d enjoy it far too much. Now stop that, you’re frightening those kids over there.”

+

“You’ll have to be secluded while you’re growing your beard out, and before you dye your hair. You can’t take the risk of being recognized by anyone here.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll actually go to Edinburgh, find a bedsit or something, wait it out there.”

“And don’t get dye from a chemists’, and try to do it in the sink. Never looks right. Get it done properly, at a hairdresser’s.”

“Yes, I know, Sherlock.”

John suddenly realized that Sherlock was beginning to repeat himself, and Sherlock _never_ repeated himself. They’d been over the whole plan so many times, it was imprinted in his brain. He was beginning to worry he would start muttering “hair dye” and “brother in Belarus” and “blood bags” in his sleep.

_We’re ready_ , he thought. _I know it, and he knows it_.

_He’s stalling._

The realization came just as Sherlock’s mobile chimed with a text. John watched as he opened and read the message.

“Who is it?” John asked.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, quietly, neutrally, without his usual excitement over a new case. “He wants us to come in tomorrow and look over some evidence on a fraud case.”

“Okay,” John said. He let a long breath hiss out between his teeth. “So. Tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “Yes.”

They stood in silence for a time, Sherlock staring at his mobile, John gazing at Sherlock. After a long moment, John held his hand out to Sherlock.

“Come on, then,” he said quietly. “Come help me pack.”

+

John, romantic fool that he was, had lit candles and placed them around the room. Sherlock had scoffed at first, but now he had to admit he liked it – they made the room warm, slightly stuffy and close, making it feel as though there was no world beyond the bed, which was an appealing thought at the moment.

He would never tire of mapping out the musculature of John’s body, he thought, tracing his fingertip along the line of John’s bicep and tricep, then trailing over to his pectorals. When they first became lovers, Sherlock had been surprised by the tightness and definition of the muscles in his body, well disguised under his nearly shapeless clothes. At first he had been appalled that John would choose to hide his body like this, but eventually came to appreciate that this beauty was his to unwrap and explore, and was for no one’s sight but his own.

Sherlock admired the esthetics of how the candlelight reflected against the perspiration on John’s body, making him shine and glow. A drop of sweat rolled from John’s hairline along his jaw and down his neck; Sherlock curled his spine and licked it away, then arched and thrust into John, smooth and deep. John sighed and groaned at once, then tangled his hands into Sherlock’s hair and pulled him down for a kiss.

“God, you feel good,” he whispered against Sherlock’s mouth.

“I’m glad,” Sherlock whispered back, and felt John’s lips form a smile. He reached down and glided his hand along John’s hip, down his thigh to his knee, then gently pulled the knee up closer to John’s chest, opening him up more. He thrust again, with a hard flick of his hips at the end that he hadn’t planned. He felt John’s heart thundering against his own chest, felt the vibration of his moan reverberating through them both.

“Tell me you’re close, Sherlock,” John gasped. “Please tell me you’re close because I am so, so close.”

Suddenly Sherlock _was_ close, closer than he thought he was – sodium light sparking along his nerve endings in the large muscles of his legs and groin, along the edges of the hair on his thighs and belly.

“ _Oui_ ,” he murmured. He held himself up with his left hand and reached his right between them, stroking John’s cock firmly. “Come for me, John.”

Nearly immediately he felt the muscles in John’s stomach ripple against the back of his hand, the hands in his hair clench, and John’s entire body tighten around him. John’s voice rose, harsh and wordless, and Sherlock felt wet warmth spread over his fingers. He focused on continuing to move, rocking John’s body through the spasms, memorizing the way his face looked in this unguarded moment.

After a moment, he felt John’s body relax, his exhalations humming.

“God, Sherlock,” John panted. “God. I love you. I love you so much.”

Sherlock pulled back and stared. He saw his own shock reflected in John’s cobalt eyes, saw the realization enter his gaze, the realization that those words had not yet crossed the air between them.

Then Sherlock gasped, and the orgasm rolled over him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never make declarations of love just before, during, or just after an orgasm, Watson. Good rule of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to my wonderful beta, residentbunburyist.

_Idiot. Moron. Berk._

John was running out of insults for himself. He looked out the cab window at London whipping past, clenching and unclenching his fist. If force of will could take words back, or rewind time, he would have done it by now.

_Never make declarations of love just before, during, or just after an orgasm, Watson. Good rule of life._

If only Sherlock had, if only Sherlock _would_ say something, John could react to it – make a joke, reiterate his words, ask if his feelings were reciprocated – something. But Sherlock had stayed nearly silent since he had collapsed after his orgasm. After a moment, John had gotten out of bed, blown out the candles, cleaned up, and returned to the bed. They had laid side by side in the dark, and John couldn’t be sure whether he fell asleep first, or if Sherlock did, or if Sherlock slept at all.

Of course, John could say something first. Be the bigger man. Initiate the conversation. “About what I said, Sherlock…” “People say all sorts of things during sex, don’t they…” “It’s all right if you can’t say it back to me…” “Sherlock, please, before I go…”

But he couldn’t get the words out.

And they were off to the Met, where the first stage in the plan would be initiated, and John was keenly aware that this was the last time they would be alone together for God knows how long. Now was the time, and later would be too late.

_Speak now, or forever hold your peace._

John looked over at Sherlock. He was in his “deep thought” mode: gazing out the window, his curved hand at his lips. God, he was ridiculously beautiful in the weak morning sunlight, and John felt everything he’d been feeling throb again in his chest. Yes, he wanted to kiss those lips, he wanted to interlace his fingers with those long, thin fingers, he wanted to touch that body, but what he felt was more than lust, more than desire. He loved Sherlock, and he wanted Sherlock to love him back.

“Sherlock…” John said.

Sherlock looked over at John for the first time since they had gotten in the cab.

“We’re here,” he said.

+

They had been set up in one of the briefing rooms, with a large whiteboard that Sherlock had thus far ignored, and a long table now covered with the contents of eleven thick files and two evidence boxes. It was a fraud case, possibly connected to some cold cases, and John was already sure that Sherlock would have the case wrapped up within two hours.

Sherlock was sitting at the end of the table, paging through the oldest file, eyes flicking over the yellowed onionskin paper; John sat to his right, looking at one of the more recent case files. Lestrade and a red-haired officer whose name John could never remember sat at the far end, digging through the evidence boxes for a model of the Eiffel Tower that Sherlock insisted would be there and that would tie the cases together.

Donovan entered the room carrying a third box, peeved at having been sent down to the archives for it. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to her and quickly back to the file. John noted it as well – three witnesses to the next act.

“Phone, John,” Sherlock said, turning his hand palm up, his eyes not moving from the file.

The phone lay a mere three inches away from Sherlock’s hand. He wouldn’t even need to fully extend his arm to pick it up.

 _That’s my cue_ , John thought.

 _You don’t have to do this_ , another part of his brain shouted. _Put this whole thing on pause, go home again and talk it all out, start over another day. The Montague case, this stupid plan, it’s not as important as what you have, what you could have._

And as if in reply to this very rational argument his brain had offered, he heard Sherlock’s voice in a far away memory: “ _I consider myself married to my work_.”

“Get it yourself,” John said. _No turning back now._

“Busy,” Sherlock said, without looking up.

“So am I, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Just hand me the damn phone, John.”

John picked up Sherlock’s mobile and smacked it into his hand, hard enough to surely sting. “Would it kill you to say please?”

Sherlock’s eyes cut over to John’s briefly, and John was momentarily staggered by the vulnerability and hurt in his eyes. It lasted only a second, and was gone so quickly that John wasn’t sure if it was part of the act or not. Sherlock immediately focused on the phone, intent on research.

John let the atmosphere settle for a moment, then licked his lips and started again. “You might be better off with a dog rather than me.”

He heard Donovan hiss in her breath, but wasn’t distracted by it. He began to understand how actors could keep going through emotional scenes while the audience coughed or rattled their programs.

“Good idea, that. A dog could fetch your things – your phone, slippers, the paper, that sort of thing. Then just throw him a bone every once in a while and he’s happy as can be.”

He could hear Lestrade’s jaw dropping; the tension in the room was palpable.

“An Alsatian, perhaps. A Labrador, they’re nice dogs, loyal. Or better yet, an Irish Setter. Yeah, that’s it. Loyal, and trainable, but still stupid enough for you to feel superior in comparison.”

Sherlock threw down his phone and roared, “Fine, as long as the dog was quieter than you! Now shut up and let me work!”

Silence fell like a heavy weight in the room. Lestrade, Donovan and the ginger officer were frozen in place, only their eyes moving between John and Sherlock.

“Fine,” John said, dangerously quiet. “Fine. We’re done here. You’re on your own.”

John stood up, allowing his chair to fall over with a loud crash. He grabbed his coat and walked past Lestrade and out the door. It wasn’t until he was in the cab that he was aware of breathing.

 _Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. That’s it. It’s done._ He could hear nothing but a faint buzzing noise just behind his ears.

At Baker Street he told the cabbie to wait, and raced up the stairs into the flat. His hand was on his suitcase when the argument in his head started up again.

_Stop. Stop now. Tell the cabbie to go, wait for Sherlock to come home, force him to talk to you._

The argument had been planned, scripted, and had gone exactly as they had mapped it out. And yet John was regretting what he had said, worried that Sherlock had truly been wounded by his words, worried that Sherlock had not been acting when he had spoken his lines.

 _Of course he was acting_ , he thought. _It’s for a case. Everything for the case. You’d do well to mind that yourself._

He hesitated, then packed a few last items. Picking up the suitcase and duffel bag, he locked the door carefully, and ran down the steps. He had just opened the front door again when he heard Mrs. Hudson behind him.

“Oh hello, dear, I thought I heard you. Off out again, are…”

He heard her sentence stutter to an abrupt stop as she saw his suitcases. _I forgot about Mrs. Hudson_ , he thought dully. _Dear Mrs. Hudson_.

“Are… are you going somewhere, John?”

John kept his back to her; he knew if he faced her he would lose courage again.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson,” he said softly, and walked out the door and into the waiting cab.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock smiled to himself in the cab back from Scotland Yard. He had solved the fraud case in eighty-six minutes, twenty four minutes less than his original estimate, and the first step of the Montague plan had gone without a hitch. He was sure he would need to repeat his deduction about the fraud to Lestrade at some point; it was apparent that the man had taken in none of what Sherlock was saying, shock and dismay still written broad across his face a full hour after John had stormed out.

 _John’s become quite the actor_ , he thought. _That was impressive, completely believable_.

He tried to imagine John with darker hair, with a full beard. He hoped it would have a better effect than the mustache, so long ago. John had said it should take him about three weeks for the beard to come in, five weeks for it to render him unrecognizable except under close examination. Then he would attempt to infiltrate the network.

He passed a bill to the cabbie and jumped out of the cab at Baker Street before the car came to a full stop. Adrenalin and excitement about the two cases gave him a bounce in his step as he unlocked the door.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting in the chair in the entryway, clearly waiting for him. Her face was set with worry and tinged with sadness.

_Ah, she must have seen John. Excellent, another witness._

Mrs. Hudson stood, nervously wiping her hands on her apron. “Sherlock, dear…”

“I know, Mrs. Hudson, thank you,” he said brusquely as he climbed the stairs, two at a time.

His confidence dissipated suddenly when he entered the flat, the silence hitting him like a wave. He pulled up short, freezing in place in the middle of the sitting room. Even when John was out, his presence still created a low level buzz in the flat; with his possessions nearby, his time of return a known factor, John always created a subconscious, underlying noise in the flat. Sherlock didn’t realize until now, in its absence, how comforted he had been by this noise.

He became aware of a feeling pooling in his stomach that he hadn’t felt in a long time, and he searched through his memories until he found it: after he had returned, after John had reacted with anger to Sherlock’s revelation in the restaurant; Sherlock watching John and Mary driving away in the cab, with blood still dripping from his nose; walking away from the diner, alone down the empty street.

_John is gone. He is gone from me._

Carefully, reluctantly, Sherlock opened the door in his mind where he had stored the memories of last night. The images and sensations came tumbling out - the flickering candles reflecting on John’s skin, John’s hands in his hair, John’s voice gasping in his ear, ‘ _God, I love you. I love you so much_.’

As if afraid to make any noise, Sherlock turned and walked down the hall to their bedroom. He saw immediately that the two suitcases were absent; he didn’t need to look in John’s closet or dresser to know what was gone. He had taken his gun as well, of course; its sharp metallic smell was missing from the room. The bed was neatly made, pillows flat – wait. When Sherlock made the bed, he placed the pillows differently, squared off against the headboard.

Sherlock moved silently to the bed, to the near side, where he slept, when he slept. He flipped the pillow up and saw his own pyjama pants, neatly folded. The sleep shirt was absent.

He smiled small, reached over and flipped the other pillow over. John’s fleece pants were gone, but his T-shirt was there, folded with crisp military lines.

Sherlock pulled the shirt out from under the pillow, disturbing the folds into soft wrinkles. He looked over the shirt, noting the stretched-out collar, the tea stain over the stomach, the loose thread at the right sleeve.

Suddenly he was tired, exhausted, swaying on his feet. Carefully he arranged the shirt over John’s pillow, then laid down on John’s side of the bed, his coat, clothes and shoes still on _._ He turned his face into the pillow with the shirt and inhaled the scent of John, greedy and deep, into his lungs.

+

Sherlock eventually became aware of sunlight flickering across his face, of being stiff and uncomfortable, of his mouth feeling fuzzy and dank, and of a worried, fretful tutting sound. Ah. Mrs. Hudson had come as far as his bedroom door. He let his eyes flutter shut again, turning his face more deeply into the pillow and shirt. After a time, he heard the click of Mrs. Hudson’s heels walking away.

Eons later, he heard the chink of china on the wood of the bedside table. The sound woke him **,** but not enough to open his eyes.

“Come on now, dear, have some tea, everything looks better after tea.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t move, didn’t flicker, didn’t even grunt.

“You’re awake, I know you are, Sherlock. Don’t ignore me, young man.”

 _Go away_ , Sherlock thought as loud as he could.

He heard her sigh, and was predicting the sound of her walking away again, when he was startled by small hands grasping the lapels of his coat.

“I said, don’t ignore me, young man,” Mrs. Hudson said firmly, and pulled at him with surprising strength. Sheer astonishment drowned his resistance, and he sat up, immediately missing the hazy shadow of warmth his own body had left behind on the bed. Suddenly his hands were framing a mug and he felt the heat of the tea vibrate across his skin.

“Drink up, now, good boy.”

Sherlock drank. His eyes felt crusty and raw. His internal clock was skewed, and he realized he had no idea how much time had passed since he had laid down.

Mrs. Hudson brushed his fringe with the tips of her fingers. “You mustn’t take on so, dear heart,” she said. “Does neither of you any good.”

He felt his transport slowly coming online, as though the tea was acting as petrol in a rusty car. He felt a hollow ache in his stomach, the urge to urinate was returning. His face was stubbly, the skin dry _._ He wanted to only sip his tea but found himself gulping it, feeling the burn of it at the back of his throat and down his esophagus.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him, kindness and concern wrinkling her eyes. “Sherlock, just call him. Call him and I’m sure you can patch it up. He’s a good man, I’m sure if you talked to him you could work it out.”

He stared down into the empty mug, counting the leaves of tea floating in the bottom of it.

“I can’t, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “I simply can’t.” He looked up into her eyes. “And I must ask you to never suggest it again.”

+

_Six weeks later_

Sherlock scanned the scene again, totting up the data in his mind. He had the solution, now he was just figuring out the best way to explain so no one would ask him to repeat himself.

“Anytime now, Holmes,” Donovan said. “Come on then, Forensics is ready to break down the door, they need to get started.”

Sherlock sighed quietly. Another time he would have shut her up with a sharp retort, but now he was tired, tired, tired, and an argument would only prolong the time until he could get away, out of this room, back home.

“Dry skin on his hands, plus a number of tiny paper cuts, old and new – he handled paper, constantly. Not a standard copy shop, the cuts are finer than the standard paper weight. Faint pinkish dye on the right thumb and the inside of the first knuckle of the middle finger, where the ink has stained his hands while he was counting something. Same colour pink as a fifty pound note. The scent is a particularly cheap ink, not the high quality ink the Mint uses. Counterfeiter. Mud on his shoes indicates a flat in East Finchley, but the printing press is in the north somewhere, try Manchester first.”

Sherlock tried to imagine John’s voice saying, “Amazing!” but Donovan interrupted.

“Manchester? Are you joking? We’re supposed to wander around one of the largest cities in England asking random strangers if they’ve seen a counterfeit factory around?”

Sherlock said evenly, “The factory would need a water source, but wouldn’t require a lot of real estate. Try warehouses in the city centre, along the River Irwell. Not a place with landscaping, but rather a rock garden. That should narrow it down.”

Silence. 

“Got it? Anything else?” he said.

“Uh, no, that’s it. Ta, Sherlock. I have to stay here but Simmons can drive you home if you want,” Lestrade said.

“No, thanks,” Sherlock said, sweeping out to avoid seeing Lestrade and Donovan glance at each other.

He walked home. He hadn’t been taking cabs as much lately, the hollow space on the other side of the seat becoming more and more intolerable. It took him just over an hour, chain smoking the whole way.

He was buzzing a little from the nicotine as he approached Baker Street, and at first didn’t hear the girl standing by the door, rattling a paper cup – “Spare change for some tea, sir?”

He hesitated while he rewound her sentence in his head. She frowned and repeated, “Just for a cup of _tea_ , sir,” emphasizing the noun.

Ah. He turned back to her and said, “Will a pound cover a tea?” while he handed her a tenner.

“Yes, sir, nicely,” she replied, slipping a piece of paper, folded into a wedge, into his hand.

With a level of patience he rarely showed, Sherlock did not read the paper straight away on the street. Instead he unlocked the door, climbed the stairs, carefully hung his coat up and sat on the sofa. Then, and only then, he unfolded the dirty paper. Written there, in block letters, were only two words: ‘He’s in.’

Sherlock leaned back, resting one foot against the edge of the coffee table, staring at the paper. Not John’s writing. Not ‘I’m in’, but ‘He’s in.’

Slowly he extended his leg until the table tipped on an angle and all the papers and empty coffee cups slid off, pattering on the carpeted floor. An extension of the foot and finally the toes, and the whole coffee table fell over, teetered indecisively on its edge for a second, then crashed upside down on top of the mess. Sherlock observed all of this as if the actions belonged to someone else.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What John did.

It was raining outside; a dark, cold, heavy rain, rattling against the windows of 221B like a child throwing marbles, but inside the flat it was quiet and warm.Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his long thin body stretched out on his right side; John lay on his left; chest to chest, hip to hip. Their knees tangled comfortably together. Sherlock’s right arm supported John’s head while his other hand cupped against John’s waist. John’s fingers were tangled in Sherlock’s hair, stroking the curls.

It felt as though they had been kissing for hours, and would kiss for hours yet. John did not feel the heat of sexual urgency, did not feel the urge to press Sherlock onto his back, nor did he feel like cooling into a cuddle or asimple embrace or sleep. Sherlock’s mouth was warm and soft and endlessly fascinating and he would never, never tire of kissing him.

The fire was lit in the fireplace, and John felt bracketed by warmth – the fire at his back, and Sherlock’s body heat against his front. The rattle of the rain on the window made a counterpoint rhythm to the pop of the logs and the whispering roar of flame. Sherlock broke the kiss by brushing his lips up along John’s cheekbone, then leaned back slightly and smiled.

John watched the fire reflected in Sherlock’s eyes – green at the moment – and by the sodium light glow that seemed to emanate from his happy face. He was suddenly conflicted – he wanted to keep kissing, but he couldn’t take his eyes away from Sherlock’s.

“John,” Sherlock said, brushing his fingertips along John’s jaw, his face filled with wonder and joy. “John, I-”

John’s mobile rang.

He scrambled for it in the dark, finding it on the floor by the narrow bed. He fumbled at the ‘Talk’ button and half-yelled, half-coughed, “Yeah?”

“Jimmy, there’s a shipment. Pick you up in fifteen.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

John hung up and rolled onto his back and sighed into the damp cool air of his bedsit. He lay still for a moment, waiting for his heart to slow back to normal, waiting for the erection he didn’t have the heart to touch to subside.

“Shit,” he muttered, pushed Sherlock’s T-shirt under the pillow, and rolled out of bed to dress.

+

John had to give credit to the organizers of the network; they had the system down pat. Grunts such as himself were never given advance notice of a shift, just a phone call with fifteen minutes’ notice. They were picked up in an anonymous van, driven to a parking garage where they were transferred to another van with blackened windows. The end result was that no one knew where they were working, and, in theory, would not be able to rat to the police with any true knowledge.

This location gave a few strong hints though – unloading at a dock narrowed things down considerably. It wasn’t the Thames, but a canal – the Grand Union was John’s guess. He thought about taking a photo of the scene but there were too many workers about to do it discretely; he settled for memorizing as much as he could, and trying to pinpoint it on a map later.

John grabbed another box, grunting slightly at its weight. It had been years since he had had a job that was purely physical, drudge work like this, but he supposed it was the price he had to pay.

The fact that it was pure drudge work was probably the reason it had been stunningly easy to infiltrate the smuggling ring – he was actually one of the lowest of the low in the organization, and while he might find scraps of information it was unlikely that he would find the key to bring down the network where he was now. Most of his work was moving boxes from ships to warehouses, from warehouses to vans, from vans to storefronts or markets. He had no idea what he was shifting, just that it was often heavy. He had carefully memorized license plate numbers and warehouse addresses, but evidence was weak at this point and couldn’t hold water in a court of law. However, it was better than nothing and it was early days yet.

And the work wasn’t horrible. It was physically hard, no doubt, and the first couple of weeks found him thinking longingly of the bathroom at Baker Street, with its large bath and seemingly endless supply of hot water. In the bedsit where he was staying, he could only soak in a tepid bath for five minutes or so before someone was pounding on the door telling him to hurry it up.

But once his body had adjusted to the work, he found he enjoyed the tight pull of his muscles, that he could keep up with the younger men, and even imagined he was losing weight. The other lads were all right too; most of them were in their early twenties, and rather than being mustache twirling villains working for an evil empire, they were just young men who needed a job to pay the bills and the occasional knees’ up. After some initial standoffishness, they had warmed to him, with a few of them clearly looking to him as a father figure. (It occurred to John that had he been stupider about safe sex in his youth, he might have had a child of that age by now, which in turn made him wonder how much differently his life would have ended up if that had been the case.)

One of the boys, Georgie, nudged him as he stacked empty boxes in a corner of the van. “Oi, Uncle Jimmy! Fancy a pint after?”

John smiled at the nickname the boy had given him. Georgie had no father that he remembered, his mother had kicked him out at fifteen, and could barely read. He clearly looked up to John because John had never made fun of him like the others often did.

“You’re on,” he said.

Georgie grinned and pointed at the box. “Look at that, eh? Dec-lan,” he said slowly, underlining the letters with his finger. “I had a mate back home named Declan, figure the load comes from him?”

John glanced at the spray painted word on the side of the box and was about to correct Georgie, as the word was actually “Děčín”, when he felt a spark of recognition. He had seen that word before, a strange word, printed, in bold but small blue letters…

His visual memory kicked in and he realized he had seen it on a map in Baker Street, on Sherlock’s huge collage – a city in the Czech Republic. _That must be the origin of the shipment_ , he thought. _A link, at last_.

He grinned at Georgie, funnelling his elation into a different frame. “Old buddy of yours struck it rich, eh? Better ring him and knock him up for a loan, then.”

“Like fuck I will,” Georgie replied. “Prolly wouldn’t know me from a hole in the ground now.”

“Who knows,” John said. “Come on, hurry up, I want that pint.”

“Georgie! Move your ass, you stupid twat!” yelled Parker, the foreman for the work tonight. John worked hard to school his face into passivity. Parker was an enormous asshole who seemed to have it in for everyone, but Georgie in particular. John hated being on Parker’s crew because he worried that someday he’d forget himself and haul off and punch the man.

John put the box down for a moment, rubbing his back as if it hurt, then quickly ‘checked the time’ on his watch but instead surreptitiously took a photo of the label Georgie had found. He smiled thinly to think how Sherlock would react to the thought of an illiterate, naïve boy making the first break with the case.

Suddenly an amplified voice cut through the night air: _“This is the Metropolitan Police. No one move. Put your hands on your head and kneel down. Do it now.”_

_Oh shit, it’s a raid_ , John thought, the Met were raiding the site, and they would only arrest the workers and not the ringleaders, who would go to ground and set everything back months. At best, John would be arrested; at worst, someone would recognize him and call him out by name, and blow his cover. _Shit shit shit_.

He cut his eyes over to Georgie, who was frozen with a box still in his hands. The boy’s eyes were flickering with fear and confusion.

He was opening his mouth to say, “Kneel down, Georgie,” when he heard the unmistakeable crack and whine of a bullet. For the life of him he couldn’t tell which group the shot had come from, but suddenly the air was full of banging and the smell of gunpowder. ‘At worst’ was now worse.

Despite the cool and damp, he was suddenly in Afghanistan, and his army brain took over. He dropped the box he was holding – _watches_ , he thought, glancing at the contents spilled over the ground, _bloody_ _Rolex watches_ – grabbed Georgie by his jacket and half dragged, half carried him behind the forklift.

“Jesus Christ, Jimmy, what do we do? Jesus fuck, what do we do?” Georgie gasped in a high thin voice.

“Keep your head down,” John said as he pulled his gun from his waistband. He ignored his own advice and peeked up, sheltered by the frame of the machine. Christ, Parker was still out in the open, yelling his fool head off, as though he could stop the bullets by bullying them.

“Parker, take shelter! Parker, get-” he shouted, but then he saw the sight he had seen so often in the war – Parker’s body jerking and falling like a tree, with the scream that was unique to those with a bullet in their body. John remembered it well.

He looked past Parker’s writhing body to see the police cars, with officers sheltering behind them, guns out. _Whoever organized this raid is a complete idiot_ , he thought, counting only ten officers, not all of whom were armed. He saw one officer peeking his head up and felt the shock of recognition – it was the red haired officer whose name John could never remember.

_My God, he’s going to get his head shot off_. He looked too young to be an officer, let alone assigned to a raid like this. _He has no idea how to cover himself_. _And if he gets killed tonight, this whole situation is going to go to hell in a handbasket._

He focused his gun just above the young officer’s head, blocking out Parker’s screams and Georgie’s whimpers. He aimed carefully and whispered, “Get down now, son.”

He fired, trusting the bullet’s aim to pass harmlessly over the ginger officer’s head, and was relieved to see the boy reacting and ducking down. He heard shouts of “Hold fire! Hold fire!” and prayed that everyone would listen.

John turned to Georgie. “Run, Georgie. Run as fast as you can and don’t stop.” Then he tucked his gun back into his waistband and ran towards Parker.

The next thing he was conscious of was running, running, with Parker over his good shoulder in a fireman’s carry, the man’s left hand bouncing against the backs of John’s legs as he ran. He found himself thinking, bizarrely, that while Parker was shorter than Sherlock by a good four inches, he weighed about the same. John thought of the many times he had carried Sherlock like this, but Sherlock had never screamed as Parker was doing, constant and unending, but would either be silent because he was unconscious or complaining and ordering John to put him down.

It was cold and damp and a misty rain was falling but in John’s mind it was hot and dry and the sand prickled at his face as he ran. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart and people shouting and Parker shrieking. He ran as if speed would impair the flight of a bullet. He felt like he was in an American police telly program or a Bond film, and he remembered Sherlock making fun of the Bond film they watched together and the way Sherlock’s hand had crept over to John’s thigh during the movie and before the credits rolled they were snogging furiously and he wished it were Sherlock over his shoulder, Sherlock he was protecting, and not a shrieking bully arsewipe.

He looked up and saw the van, like a vision, with the side panel open, arms sticking out and waving at him, tense faces and shouting mouths framing the doorway. He threw Parker bodily into the sea of arms and laps and jumped in afterwards, the van already moving. As soon as John’s body was clear of the doorway someone slammed it shut, and John’s hearing went back to normal, now only filled with the sound of panting, adrenaline **-** charged young men. Parker even stopped screaming and only let out a high pitched whimper.

“Give me your scarf,” he called to one of the men **\--** Ted **,** his name was **\--** and took it and pressed it against Parker’s leg as best he could as the van took corners sharply.

“Is he gonna die, Jimmy?” Ted said in a high, frightened voice.

Already John could see it wasn’t an arterial wound, that Parker would live to bully again. “I don’t think so, but we need to stop the bleeding.”

The van slowed somewhat, and John looked up at the driver, nerves still singing with tension. “I’ve lost them, I think,” the driver called back, and John exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours. The mood in the van shifted; John recognized the feeling from the war, after a raid. The victory of the lucky.

“Jesus, Jimmy,” one of the men said. “I can’t believe how you hauled arse like that.”

“Nothing like the threat of arrest to turn you into an Olympic sprinter,” he said, gulping air and suddenly feeling old, very old.

“I saw what you did,” another panted. “You nearly gave that ginger copper a new part in his hair.”

“Changed the colour of his pants too, I reckon,” called another from the back.

John smiled, looking around the grinning faces. Suddenly he felt his stomach drop.

“Where’s Georgie?” _Oh fuck, had they left him behind?_

Ted laughed. “I saw him, and he saw me,” he said. “I called him from the van and he looked at me and kept running.”

John began to giggle. “He’s probably half way to Manchester by now.” The laughter rose up in him unchecked, as he thought of Georgie obeying his last instructions to the letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ginger cop, by the way, is the one in the field who tells John about the helicopter in A Scandal in Belgravia. My little headcanon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John is the luckiest sod in England.

After the adrenaline dissipated, John slept for about nine hours straight with no dreams, and would have slept longer had his mobile not rung with another summons.  He was surprised and immediately wary when he jumped in the van and found himself to be the only passenger.

“Where are the others, Mark?” he called to the driver.

The only response was a shrug. _That’s not good_ , John thought, but sat back and concentrated on keeping the panic at bay.

His tension was heightened when at the exchange point he was moved, not to another van but to a saloon car, with John again as the sole occupant of the back seat.

_At least when Mycroft kidnaps me in one of these cars, there’s usually someone to have a one-sided conversation with_. He had a personal theory that Anthea was actually playing Angry Birds whenever he saw her.

Humour, even only in his own head, helped him stay calm. Calmer, anyway.

The car eventually pulled up to a posh house in St. John’s Wood. The driver hopped out, opened John’s door and gestured him to follow. At the door John felt an urge to clean his shoes by rubbing them against the back of his legs.

“Wish someone had warned me,” he said to the driver. “I don’t normally wear my tux when I’m working.”

The driver twisted his mouth as if trying not to laugh, and knocked at the door. A man John didn’t recognize opened it, nodded at the driver, and gestured to John to enter.

The house was posh and slightly tacky, as if decorated by someone who liked shiny things as a child with no allowance, and now had more money than could be counted. John was jittery and nervous, still not entirely sure he wasn’t about to be killed horribly. However, he had had enough practice being kidnapped by Mycroft to not allow the fear to reach his face or hands.

He was led to a private office with a pretentious marble desk and leather chair. Sitting in the chair was a man John recognized immediately from a photo in Sherlock’s collage – Edward Montague himself.

_Okay, this is bad. Getting summoned by the big boss after being on the job less than a month can’t be good. Can it?_

“Bewick, right?” Montague said. “Jimmy Bewick?”

“Yes, sir,” John said, conscious of standing in parade rest.

“Do you know who I am?”

Assuming it wouldn’t be safe to say he knew, but not sure if the man’s ego would be bruised if he didn’t, John compromised and said, “I think so, sir, but wouldn’t want to guess and get it wrong.”

Montague smiled. “That’s my stuff you were shifting last night, Jimmy, when the Met came to call.”

“If it’s about the box I dropped, sir, I’m that sorry, just the coppers startled me and…”

Montague waved as if John’s words were smoke. “Not worried about a little box of trinkets,” he said. “I heard everything about last night, what went down and your actions.” John started to sweat just a bit, until Montague added, “Parker told me everything you did, that you saved his sorry arse.”

“He’s-” John had to swallow, “he’s doing all right today then?”

“Bitching and moaning, as usual, but he’ll get over it.” Montague fiddled with a paperclip, as if embarrassed to look at John. “My sister’s youngest. Regular twat, he is, but I gave him the job to keep Ruthie happy. I never would have heard the end of it if he’d-” He stood and crossed to John, extending his hand. “I owe you one, Jimmy.”

John shook the man’s hand while his brain was a riot of thought. _Oh my God. Parker’s the boss’s nephew. I could have punched him instead and been in the bottom of the Thames less than a day later. Instead I save the idiot and the biggest smuggler kingpin in Europe owes me a favour now_.

“Quite the sharpshooter too, I hear?” Montague continued. “Parker said there was at least fifty coppers and you kept their heads down long enough for the whole crew to escape.”

_Fifty?_ “Just wanted all the boys to get home, sir.”

Montague clapped him on the back. “You did well, son. I’d like you to be my personal courier – I need a fellow like you who can take care of himself and my interests. More running around than the lifting you’ve been doing, but I’d pay you triple.”

John couldn’t help his jaw hanging low for a moment. _I am the luckiest sod in England_.

+

Three weeks as Montague’s courier and John had so much evidence that he was getting worried about the capacity of his James Bond watch. At the same time he was fraught with indecision; he didn’t want to initiate the last stage of the plan prematurely and risk the whole house of cards falling around his ears. The last stage was the most risky, for both himself and Sherlock, and yet if it went well it would reap the greatest reward, linking the whole network together with irrefutable evidence. At the same time, while he knew he already had enough evidence to bring to Lestrade and bring down the smuggling ring, he wanted to be sure he had enough to put Montague and the other ringleaders away for life. How much evidence was enough?

He was pondering this while he wended his way through the stalls of the Brick Lane Market, returning after a pickup. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that he had more money strapped to his leg than he had ever earned in his lifetime.

Suddenly he heard a familiar sound that made his heart stutter – the graceful keen of a violin, the notes soaring over the clamour and ruckus of the market.

On legs that suddenly felt a bit wobbly, John followed the music until he found the busker, an old man bundled in blankets in a wheelchair, dark glasses covering his eyes, hands in fingerless unravelling gloves dancing over the strings. He could not identify the piece – he was absolute pants at recognizing melodies, to Sherlock’s everlasting annoyance and frustration – and he wasn’t even sure if it was a piece that Sherlock used to play.

All he knew is that suddenly he felt warmer, and felt calmer. He felt not homesick, but at home. He recollected his dream of Baker Street, and the sofa, and Sherlock’s soft, full mouth.

He wondered idly if the violinist was actually Sherlock in disguise, but it almost didn’t matter. He stepped closer, threw a couple of pound coins onto the blanket in front of the man, and quietly said, “Thank you,” before turning away.

_It’s time. I want to go home._

+

As he handed over the roll of bills to Montague, John allowed the nervous energy in his body to spill out, just a little. The tremour in his hand caused Montague to pause and look up at John quizzically. “Something wrong, Jimmy? Anything happen?”

He grabbed the opportunity and said, “No sir, all went well but… Can I ask you something sir?”

Montague nodded, and John started pacing. “Family’s important to you, right sir? I mean, your sister, your uncle, all of them?”

“Of course, Jimmy, what’s the point?”

“I mean, back at the dock, what if I’d left Parker behind? Or even, I don’t know, kicked him while he was down and then left him behind to bleed out?”

“You’d have been dead before sunrise.”

_Never forget this is a dangerous man_ , John thought as he felt a small chill trail down his spine. “Exactly. I’d deserve it. My little-” John paused for effect, “My little brother was down, he was in trouble, and we asked someone to help him, and that bloody bastard kicked him and left him for dead, all alone in a foreign country.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My brother, Tommy, he was on a work order in Belarus and got thrown in jail for nothing, completely innocent, he was just a baby, Mr. Montague! And my Da and me went to the famous Sherlock Holmes for help,” John saw Montague straighten up out of the corner of his eye, “and that fucking ponce wouldn’t help, walked away, and they hung my brother when he was half dead of pneumonia.” John clenched his fist, getting into the story, keeping slightly turned away from Montague as if hiding his emotions.

“You know Sherlock Holmes?” Montague asked quietly.

“I know what he did to my brother, and I blame him for breaking our old mother’s heart. He was her baby and she never got to see him again.”

John turned to Montague and was gratified to see he had his total attention. “I know he’s a thorn in your family’s side too, sir. I’ve heard you mention him, the boys in the warehouse used to say how he was always sticking his snotty nose where it doesn’t belong.” This was an outright lie, none of them had ever mentioned Sherlock, but it clearly helped wind up Montague’s paranoia.

He leaned in towards Montague and went in for the kill. “I think I can get you Sherlock Holmes, sir. A friend of mine told me today how I can find out where he is, and when he’d be alone.”

Montague stood without hesitating and held out his hand to John. “If you can get him for me, Jimmy, I’ll pay you whatever price you ask.”

“I don’t want money, sir,” John said, taking Montague’s hand, feeling triumph thrum through his blood. “I want to be the one to beat the shit out of him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I got the idea of Anthea playing Angry Birds from a Tumblr post on Sherlock Headcanon: http://bbcsherlockheadcanon.tumblr.com/. Credit where credit is due.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lestrade lies for a good cause, and Sherlock gets a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter this week, folks, but we're closing in to the exciting conclusion!

Lestrade thumped at the door of Sherlock’s flat, the bangs slowing down but increasing in volume.

“Sherlock, open the door!”

“Go away.”

Sherlock’s voice was not filled with his usual peevishness or commanding tone, but rather a thin, tired sound. Lestrade glanced at Mrs. Hudson, whose face crinkled into a different kind of worry.

“I know he’s there, I hear him thumping about all the time,” she whispered, “but he hasn’t let me in to dust in ever so long.”

Lestrade banged on the door again. “Come on, Sherlock, I sent you a bunch of texts. I’ve got a case, I’m desperate.” He paused for a moment, then decided to deliver the _coup de grâce_. “It’s at least a seven.”

A pause, then a low grumble, “Give me a moment.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled small and mouthed “Thank you.” Then she looked a bit appalled. “What number is it really?”

“Maybe a three,” he grinned. “As long as it gets him out a bit though.”

The door jerked open only wide enough to let Sherlock slide out, allowing no view of the flat, but nothing stopped the wave of stale cigarette smoke wafting out. Lestrade realized with shock that even though he was dressed as impeccably as usual, Sherlock’s hair was greasy and flat on one side – he hadn’t seen him go without a shower since his cocaine days.

Sherlock glanced at him, rolled his eyes, and began to unbutton his cuff. Lestrade held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I believe you.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, shrugging into his coat. “Let’s go.”

As the two men trundled down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson spoke up hopefully. “Sherlock dear, may I just-”

“No.”

“Just a few swipes of the hoover…?”

“No.”

+

Lestrade stood with Donovan, watching Sherlock circle the dead woman, slowly, carefully. He was worried about Sherlock, clearly he wasn’t himself, but he had to admit that his work was not affected. His track record of solving crimes had remained steady – at least for the cases he came out for. His rate of responding to Lestrade’s calls had definitely gone down.

Owens, the new forensics man, drifted over to Donovan’s side, watching curiously as Sherlock crouched by the body, poking at her clothes and hair. “Who the bloody hell is that?” he whispered.

“Sherlock Holmes, he’s a consultant we bring in sometimes,” Lestrade answered, but immediately turned back to Sherlock, who had stood and was tucking away his magnifying glass.

“Not an accident, definitely a murder,” he said. “No sign of forced entry, she let him in. He was known to her, but he wasn’t a welcome guest, there’s no sign that they sat or that she offered him a drink.”

“Him?” Lestrade said.

“Yes, him, an ex-lover. He came here to try to reconcile, to-” Sherlock paused for a half second, then continued while Lestrade’s heart sank, “to convince her to come back to him. She left him about three months ago, but she was having no second thoughts, all her boxes are unpacked, if there were regrets she would procrastinate unpacking her things. She let him in, he tried to convince her to return, she refused, he tried to convince her physically, an attempt to embrace that ended with physical assault, snapped her neck in anger. Look for her old boyfriend, the one who plays Spanish guitar.”

“Sp – what?”

“Fingernail scratches on the left side of her neck and face, not the right. The fingernails on his right hand were longer to allow him to play the guitar.”

Then to Lestrade’s horror, Owens said in a stage whisper to Donovan, “Oh my God - is that the psychopath?”

Donovan’s head snapped around so fast Lestrade only saw her hair flying around. “Shut the fuck up, Owens.”

In the stunned silence that followed, Sherlock snapped off his gloves and dropped them on the floor. He strode towards the door, pausing only briefly by Lestrade to say, “That was only a four, at most.” Then he walked out.

+

Sherlock wearily reviewed the area around Baker Street, trying to think of a route he could take home that he had not taken what felt like a million times before.  He found the conflict of desires confusing – a part of him wanted to be back in the flat, and another part of him thought he would scratch his skin off to spend another hour alone in the sitting room.

Smoking helped. A little. Cocaine would help more but he had promised… no. Cigarettes only.

Sooner than he thought possible, he saw the iron fences of the row of houses on Baker Street. It was late afternoon still, and people were returning from work, hurrying to get home to their tedious lives. Sherlock deduced a few of them out of habit, but stopped when he saw a figure sitting near his door, a young woman wearing a ragged hoodie.

“Spare change, sir?

“Whatever for?” he replied, crushing his cigarette underfoot.

“Want to get home to see my family in Gloucester.”

Sherlock stopped moving, stopped breathing for a moment. He licked his lips.

“Gloucester’s a good distance away. How would you get there?”

“Take the train of course.”

“Can’t be many trains at this time of night.”

“There’s one what leaves at midnight.”

Sherlock passed the girl fifty quid, and spontaneously gave her the rest of his cigarette pack as well. Then he ran up the stairs to take a shower.

+

He was at the train tracks ten minutes ahead of schedule. He considered having a smoke to pass the time but resisted the urge. Fiddling with his phone, he checked again that his text to Lestrade was set to send on a delayed timer. Lestrade showing up too soon would destroy everything; vital that nothing go wrong now.

No matter how silent they can attempt to be, a small group of men in a space full of echoes can be heard approaching, especially if their intended victim is Sherlock Holmes. Three of them, he deduced – one of them to knock him out, one to lift his legs as he fell, one watching for witnesses. Which one was John?

He wasn’t startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but wasn’t expecting the handkerchief over his nose and mouth – he’d thought a cosh across the head would be the way to go. Trust John, John the doctor, who was always worried about concussions, to think of a safer way to bring Sherlock in.

He remembered to make a startled sound, but under the handkerchief, under the sweet smell of chloroform, Sherlock smiled as his eyelids slid shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The code word, "Gloucester", refers to the character in King Lear who is blinded onstage. (It's one of the few times violence takes place in front of the audience in Shakespeare.) My headcanon is that this is the play that John and Sherlock saw that gave John the idea for "the trick".
> 
> Two chapters to go, folks! Thanks to you all for your ongoing encouragement and comments, and thanks once again to my lovely beta, residentbunburyist.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curtain rises...

John surveyed the scene, checking it one last time to ensure all the pieces were in place. Montague was fiddling with his phone opposite him; a lone man supervising the door. Sherlock was sitting in a metal chair just in front of John, his back to John and facing Montague directly – his audience. The cuffs were real, but John knew they were of a type that Sherlock could pick easily.

Sherlock was still slumped over in his chair, as much as the cuffs would allow; still unconscious, but John could see his breathing rate change from shallow to deep, a sign that he was coming round. He allowed himself to stare at the back of Sherlock’s neck while framing his face in hatred for Montague’s sake.

_Looks like he hasn’t had a haircut since I left_ , he thought, then saw the long fingers twitch. John’s heart thumped a reflective double beat.

“Wake up, Mr. Holmes,” Montague said, nodding at John.

From behind the chair, John reached over and down and slapped Sherlock on the cheekbone – high on the cheekbone, knowing that even a gentle slap to the lower jaw could dislocate it. It was no harder than he would have slapped an unconscious patient, but with John’s cupped hand it made a quite convincing loud smack that echoed through the room.

Sherlock grunted, then sighed while his head came up. John watched him test each of his bonds, and reflexively try to stand. John stepped forward and placed his hand firmly on Sherlock’s right shoulder, pushing him down. He felt the warmth of Sherlock’s skin and blood and muscle soak into his hand.

“At the risk of sounding like a Bond villain – we meet at last, Mr. Holmes,” Montague said. John thought he might strain a stomach muscle trying not to laugh: _Bond references, here and now. God_. _If he only knew_.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Montague,” Sherlock replied, and, damn it, John could feel the flush coming up his chest and face at the sound of Sherlock’s deep voice, rasping and rough as it was. He lost himself in the sound of it for a moment until he heard Montague call, “Jimmy?”

_Focus, Watson. Don’t blow it now that we’re so close._

John came around in front of Sherlock and squatted down. Sherlock’s eyes wandered over John’s face, hair, beard, then back to his eyes. John didn’t allow his eyes to stray from Sherlock’s.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” he said, and started the recorder on his watch.

+

When they were preparing for this moment, Sherlock and John had set certain cues which Sherlock had called “provocative initiations”, and John had called “dick lines”, just to irritate him.

When Sherlock gave his first cue, John stood and took a position that would allow Montague to see John’s fist swing and Sherlock’s head fly back, but not see the fist connect, nor see John thump his own chest to create the missing noise of contact. He backed off and glanced at Montague; the sadistic fuck had a little smile on his face. John’s lips curled in his own smile – _gotcha_.

+

After several punches, and after John broke a small blood bag he had hidden up his sleeve against Sherlock’s face, Montague said, “You’re starting to bore me, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock had predicted this. He must not ‘spill’ right away, must give the impression of holding out against the pain, otherwise Montague would suspect something was not right. Montague had to believe Sherlock was at the end of his rope before he would ‘talk’. Time to escalate, then.

John crossed behind Sherlock, and took his long index finger into his palm. With a small jolt, a twist of his hand, John clicked his own fingers. The cumulative effect was remarkably like breaking a finger.

Sherlock screamed, immediately gritting his teeth over the sound. John remembered the man at the National Theatre who had taught them stage combat saying, “Stage violence requires two ingredients: the technical accuracy of the aggressor, and the acting ability of the victim. No trick works without a good ‘sell’.”

Listening to Sherlock pant and growl as if in pain, John thought that he was selling beautifully. He glanced again at Montague, whose eyes were glittering with perverse joy.

“One,” John said, pressing the handcuff key into Sherlock’s palm, then clicking his fingers again, “Two.”

 +

John held the knife against Sherlock’s throat. Its blade had been dulled to the point it could barely cut butter and so he didn’t hesitate to press it right against Sherlock’s throat. For a brief moment he was distracted; from this angle he could see down the full length of Sherlock’s neck, see his pulse throbbing in his carotid artery. He could also see the edges of the blood bag taped just below Sherlock’s collarbone.

_So near, and yet so far, he thought_. They were so close to finishing this game, to putting the cuffs on Montague and sending him down for life.

_Focus, Watson_. He ran the knife blade harmlessly along Sherlock’s collarbone, popping the blood bag as he went. The fake blood seeped through Sherlock’s shirt while he whined with pain.

+

John had broken two more blood bags, one along Sherlock’s side and another on his bicep, when Sherlock muttered, “It was the mud.”

John stepped back and watched Sherlock begin to play Montague like a violin.

 +

“You know I can’t just let you go,” Montague said.

John was getting close to exhausted. They had been at it for just over ten hours, and physically and emotionally he was drained. He had not had to keep up the ‘Jimmy’ persona for this long of an uninterrupted period of time yet, and frankly he was tired of playing him.

“I don’t care. Just do it.”

John stared at Sherlock, not acting for a moment. Every moment, every word, every piece of fake violence up to now had been meticulously planned months ago. Now Sherlock was going off script.

“Really, Mr. Holmes?” Montague said. “No pleas, no bribes, no handwringing? I did so want to hear you whine for your life.”

“Not worth it,” Sherlock mumbled.

What the hell is he doing? John thought. He swallowed to try to clear the fog in his throat. “Speak up!” he barked.

Sherlock raised his head and looked John in the eyes. “Don’t want to. Not anymore. Please.”

_Jesus Christ, he’s not acting any more_. John suddenly felt hollowed out, and the world sharpened its focus down to Sherlock, Sherlock staring at John with a look on his face he had never seen before.

From the moment they had met, they had been able to communicate silently, somehow knowing which way the other would turn in a fistfight, how they should react to a situation, knowing what the other was thinking. John looked hard into Sherlock’s eyes and thought, _Let me take you home now_.

He turned to the table and put down his knife, palming the empty plastic water bottle as he did. He circled Sherlock slowly, taking in the blood soaked shirt ( _he’s filthy_ ), his hair ( _he needs a haircut_ ), the way his collarbones stuck out more than usual ( _he hasn’t been eating properly_ ), the yellow tips of his fingers, hands now free of the cuffs ( _smoking again_ ). He dropped the plastic bottle into Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock caught it and held it gently.

He returned to stand in front of Sherlock and took his face between his hands, locking eyes with him. Out of Montague’s line of sight, his left thumb rubbed against Sherlock’s cheekbone.

Then he twisted Sherlock’s head abruptly to the side, and Sherlock crunched the bottle in his hand at the same moment. Sherlock went limp, and Montague started to yell, and Lestrade broke down the door.

John lay down on the floor face down, and folded his hands behind his neck. He could see Sherlock’s shoes, the restraints at his ankles already hanging loose. He watched Sherlock’s shoe shift, his toe touch John’s elbow, a quick stroke with his foot, then retreat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left! Thank you everyone who's been following and cheering me on.
> 
> Just a little PSA: I worked in theatre for ten years, and handled a lot of stage violence. Please, if you are acting in a show with violence, even a local theatre group, please get someone who knows what they're doing to design the fights. As this chapter mentions, it's possible to get hurt very badly with something as small as a slap. I have several friends with Fight Directors of Canada, and they drill this all the time. Thanks.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexytimes ahead!

John was damn near vibrating in the cab all the way to Baker Street. Given his choice, he’d have been snogging Sherlock desperately from the moment Lestrade allowed them to go. As it was, he knew Sherlock was not fond of public displays of affection, even alone in a taxi. So as much as he didn’t want to, he respected Sherlock’s wish and kept his hands to himself.

It was half killing him, though.

He was also aware of a bit of awkwardness in the air, like a first date where you really like the person but are unsure how to make the first move. There had been much unsaid before he had gone away, and still needed to be said. And John still didn’t know what to say.

Sherlock was staring out the window, his hands resting on his legs. The Belstaff was wrapped around him, carefully hiding the blood soaked shirt underneath. Lestrade had talked him into washing his face at least before they left, but John could see traces of the fake blood around Sherlock’s hairline. John thought about Sherlock licking the corn syrup based blood from his finger in the warehouse, and gripped his hand into a tight fist.

 _God damn it, how many traffic lights are there on Marylebone Road?_ he thought.

He looked out the window, then looked _at_ the window and saw the reflection of Sherlock there; Sherlock was looking at him, for the first time since they got in the car. He could almost feel, rather than see, Sherlock analyzing his darkened hair, his beard, his rough clothing. Then Sherlock turned back and looked down at his own feet.

John smiled slow. _Sherlock Holmes, when we get home, I am going to kiss you until we both forget how to breathe, and then I am going to make love to you, and then we are going to talk for a very long time_.

At last, at last, they pulled up to 221B and Sherlock got out of the car first leaving John to pay for the cab _as usual_ , and John paid and ran from the car to the door and as much as he liked and missed Mrs. Hudson, he really, really hoped she wouldn’t see him, not yet.

He ran up the stairs after Sherlock, two at a time, and barrelled through the door – and was shocked into stillness at the sight of the flat.

It was never neat at the best of times, but now it was a complete disaster. The coffee table was overturned, papers and books strewn everywhere, dirty crockery on every surface and on the floor. A blue fog of cigarette smoke hovered a few feet from the ceiling.

John looked around, aware that his jaw was hanging down. “Jesus, Sherlock-” he said.

Sherlock hung up his coat, turned around and snapped viciously, “It was a stupid idea, John!”

John looked at Sherlock in confusion and shock. “What?”

Sherlock paced through the room, unmindful of the debris in his path, kicking books out of his way. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into that. Utterly stupid, moronic idea.”

John blinked, trying to process his words. “I don’t… Sherlock, we got him, we did it, there’s enough evidence to-”

“I DON’T CARE!” Sherlock roared.

There was a moment of stunned silence. John stared at Sherlock, who was trembling, his jaw twitching with tension. Then Sherlock’s eyes stuttered away from John, and he stepped to his desk, grabbed a handful of papers and threw them up into the centre of the room. Documents, photos, file folders fluttered into the air and drifted down slowly like snow, and before they reached the floor Sherlock had taken another handful and thrown it upwards.

John watched Sherlock rage and tear apart his work and his home, and something clicked inside him. He felt suddenly peaceful, the polar opposite of Sherlock’s tantrum. Somewhere, deep inside him, he now knew with absolute certainty that he was loved by Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson, soldier and doctor, warrior and healer, walked through the storm of paper and anger and fear and pulled Sherlock into his arms.

The momentum pulled both of them to their knees. John held Sherlock tightly, meeting his muttered “stupid, stupid, stupid” with a whispered, “sh, sh, sh” until he felt Sherlock’s arms clutch around him. He was holding Sherlock so tightly it must be hurting him, because Sherlock was hurting him a bit too, but he didn’t care. He felt Sherlock pull him in closer, and closer again, and he let him and held him closer too, cradling Sherlock’s head in his hand.

“I couldn’t – I thought that I could – the way I was before – all my life – never – and I _couldn’t_ -”

“I know,” John whispered to him, in awe that Sherlock was inarticulate.

After a long time Sherlock sighed, and John felt some of the tension go out of his muscles. “Stupid – _sentiment_ , John,” he said in a defeated tone.

“Yeah,” John said, half laughing. “Fucking sentiment, yeah?”

Sherlock laughed, briefly, and slumped a bit in John’s arms. John relaxed his hold somewhat, and carded his hands through Sherlock’s hair – _God, I missed doing that,_ he thought.

“We’re never doing anything like that again,” Sherlock said firmly, though muffled against John’s neck.

John smiled into Sherlock’s hair. “That’s not true, and you know it, Sherlock,” he said softly. “If that’s what it takes to bring down a criminal, then we’ll do it. We don’t lead safe lives, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Sherlock sighed and after a moment John felt him nodding in agreement. “Bloody Queen and country,” he muttered.

John chuckled and relaxed his hold enough to kiss him on the forehead. He pulled back, and saw Sherlock’s unearthly eyes gazing back at him. He felt warmth gather in his chest and radiate outwards, and smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock started to smile back, then glanced down – and John saw his eyes widen in horror. John glanced down at himself and saw blood spattered over his shirt.

For half a second his brain tried to remember being hurt, analyzing his body to find the wound, then he started to laugh. “It’s the last blood bag, you idiot. We broke the last blood bag.”

Sherlock’s deep, rare laugh began as John’s descended into a giggle. They laughed until they were leaning against each other, helpless. The laughter had not quite yet hitched away when John pulled Sherlock to his feet and said, “Come on, genius, shower.”

+

Sherlock tilted his head back into the shower’s spray. John watched as the black curls flattened into tendrils, and the red of the fake blood turning pink as it ran down his body. _I really shouldn’t be getting so turned on by this_ , he thought.

“So damn beautiful,” he said instead.

Sherlock looked down at him, and traced through the beaded water along the edges of John’s face with his fingertips.

“Indeed,” he said solemnly.

John smiled at him, and reached for Sherlock’s shampoo. He was surprised to see a bottle of his own brand sitting there, half empty. He crooked an eyebrow, puzzled – he hadn’t unpacked his own yet, so how…  He connected the dots in his head and glanced at Sherlock, who was looking sheepish.

“Your scent on your shirt lasted only thirty seven hours,” Sherlock said with a small shrug.

John grinned, handed Sherlock his own brand, and started to wash his hair.

+

John dried off his back while staring at himself in the mirror. Even after two months, he couldn’t get used to the sight of himself with the darker hair and beard. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the coarse hair.

Sherlock gently turned him away from the mirror to face him, hair still dripping water down his long neck and down his chest. Slowly, slowly, he pressed his lips against John’s; a slow, tender kiss that made John suddenly remember his dream of the sitting room and kissing Sherlock for hours.

After a minute that lasted much, much longer, Sherlock softly broke the kiss and nuzzled John’s face. “I’m torn,” he murmured.

“Between what and what?”

“I’m not,” a kiss between John’s eyes, “altogether,” another high up on the cheekbone, “sure I like the beard.” Sherlock moved down his neck, and John tilted his head to indicate ‘ _more’_. “But I don’t,” Sherlock lapped gently at John’s pulse point, “want to wait,” nibbling along his collarbone, “for you to shave.”

“Tomorrow,” John sighed. “I’ll shave it, first thing tomorrow. And get my hair cut, let my colour grow back faster.”

Sherlock kissed his way back up to John’s mouth, hesitating a hair’s breadth away from contact. “I’ll help,” he said, and closed his mouth over John’s.

Somehow they drifted across the hall to their room, leaving the wet towels on the floor and collapsing onto the bed. The cool of the room slowly dissipated as their kisses grew more heated, their touches more desperate. Even the few molecules of water felt like a distance between them, distance to be crossed by pressing close and closer.

“Please, John. I need you,” Sherlock groaned. “Inside me, now, _s’il te plait_.”

“Oh God,” John said. “Yeah, of course.” He shifted until Sherlock was lying on his back and cradled in the crook of John’s right arm, then reached for the lube in the bedside table, squeezing a generous amount on his fingers. “Say that again, Sherlock,” he murmured into Sherlock’s ear as he started to circle his hole.

“ _S’il te plait_?”

“Yeah,” John whispered, feeling the sibilant sounds go right to his cock. “You and your French,” he said fondly. He slid his middle finger in slowly. “ _S’il ta plait_.”

“ _S’il te plait_ ,” Sherlock corrected even as his eyes rolled back in his head.

“That’s ‘please’, right?”

“Yes, but – mmm – the literal translation is closer – ah! – closer to ‘if it pleases you’.”

 _Oh God_. “It does please me. It pleases me very much. You’re so tight. It’s been too long.” John forced himself to focus, to go slow, take his time. “How do you say that? Too long?”

“ _Trop longtemps_ ,” Sherlock replied, almost crooning, and John rewarded him with a second finger, and Sherlock responded with another deep sigh.

John ducked his head down and licked and worried at Sherlock’s nipple, feeling the flesh pucker under his lips, while his fingers carefully, slowly opened him up. Sherlock’s body and voice arched under John’s attentions, and soon John found himself rutting against Sherlock’s hip.

“ _Maintenant, s’il te plait, maintenant_ ,” Sherlock panted; then, at John’s confused and desperate grunt, he repeated, “now, please, now now now John…”

“If it pleases you,” John replied, and moved to kneel between Sherlock’s legs. He lathered more lube on his cock, watching Sherlock’s wide eyes watching him. “Does it please you?”

“Yes – yes – yes-” Sherlock stuttered, and John positioned his cock and began to push, slowly and carefully, not stopping or hesitating until his hips were pressing up against Sherlock’s thighs and arse.

“All right?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes closed, lips pressed together. A flush rose up his chest and neck, warming his pale skin.

John began to move, smoothly and slow. He leaned on his elbows to be as close to Sherlock’s body as he could, kissing his face and neck, whatever he could reach. “Teach me,” he whispered into Sherlock’s neck. “Tell me how to say, um,” he suddenly realized his orgasm was already gathering and he wanted to hold it off as long as possible, “I want you?”

Sherlock’s eyes opened and locked on John’s, and he placed his hands on either side of John’s face, fingers dipping into his hair. “ _Je te veux_.”

“Mmm. I missed you.”

“ _Tu manques à moi_. It means,” and Sherlock lifted his knees a bit more, opening himself up a bit more, and John felt himself starting to fall, “it means, you are missing from me.”

John knew his orgasm was only seconds away, but he knew what he wanted to say and what he would hear. He shifted his weight to his right arm, and took Sherlock’s rigid cock in his other hand, stroking and wiping his thumb over the crown. “How do you say, I love you?”

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” Sherlock answered immediately, “ _je t’aime, je_ …” and broke off with a deep groan, and John felt his body shudder all around him, felt the warm wet spread between them. John pushed deeply and caught the rhythm of Sherlock’s spasms, and thrust two, three more times and then couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, losing himself in his climax _._

The next thing he was aware of was rolling off Sherlock’s body, sweat and come mixing thickly over their bodies. He rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and tried to bring his breathing and heart rate back down.

“So,” he panted, “moving forward, do you think you’re going to come every time one of us says that?”

Sherlock chuckled low, an exhausted gust of air. “There are worse kinks, I believe.”

John laughed, suddenly feeling so full of joy he could barely contain it. He gathered Sherlock into his arms. “Well, I seem to be developing a kink for French grammar. I’ve always had a ‘Sherlock’s voice’ kink but this is turning into a strong contender.”

“Happy to oblige,” Sherlock said into his hair. John kissed whatever part of Sherlock was nearest his lips and let himself drift off to sleep.

+

A streak of sunlight across John’s face woke him. He hummed – they had left the curtains open last night, but it was a lovely way to wake up, and he felt wonderfully rested. He blinked his eyes open, squinting into the brightness of the room.

When his eyes finally focussed, he saw Sherlock lying next to him, head propped up on his elbow. He was watching John solemnly, and John wondered how long Sherlock had been lying there and waiting for him to wake.

He smiled at Sherlock, and Sherlock’s face up lit up with the smile that John knew was only for him.

“John,” he said. “John, I-”

  

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I want to thank residentbunburyist, my beta, who nudged me in the right directions and made this story so much better.
> 
> And thank you to all of you who have been following the story. I am grateful for your support and your kind comments.


End file.
